


The Emissary's Handbook

by Croft1691



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Renaissance, F/M, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-04-24 06:51:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19168015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Croft1691/pseuds/Croft1691
Summary: Province of Pescara, 1535.Stiles has worked and lived on his Father's farm in rural Italy all his life. After writing to Professor of Medicine Alan Deaton from the University of Florence, Stiles lands himself an apprenticeship under the esteemed professor, embarking on a personal journey that sees everything he knows about the world change. While there, he meets Derek Hale - son of Talia Hale, the owner of an apothecary in downtown Florence. As Stiles navigates this new job, he realises that this path was no accident and that his family history held more secrets than he had previously thought.





	1. The Letter

He was stood out in the wheat fields when it arrived, a bushel in his arms and his scythe on his back. It was just before noon, so he wasn’t far off his midday rest - having been out in the field since about 7 am. Stiles didn’t necessarily mind the manual labour that came with working on his father’s farm, he’d always been an early riser and to give him credit he was stronger than he looked. Through most of his early teen years, he’d always been noticeably skinny. Not unattractive by any means, however. His closely-cut black hair had grown out into a longer length, sitting comfortably behind his ears. The awkward, gangly limbs he’d carried through most of his childhood had given way to a subtle but toned muscle across his shoulders and his torso, even accentuating his sharp jawline. His notably pale skin made him stand out in the village amongst crowds of heavy tans. His icy grey eyes and the freckles adorning his face were both particularly striking features – especially up close.  
Honestly, the main reason he stayed on the farm is that he just loved to spend time with his father. After his mother passed, things were tough. It happened just before a harsh Winter, so money became something they had to worry about. Financially, they knew they would get through it. Emotionally though, neither of them were really capable. They both felt as though their world had disappeared and it terrified them. The one thing that kept them going, the one thing that got them through it, was that they both had each other. It was from this, the death of his mother Claudia, that Stiles discovered a love for healing. Whenever someone asked, he’d reply that whenever the doctors came to see her, he found himself fascinated with all the medicines and the herbs they used.  
What he tended to leave out was how helpless he felt watching her slowly slip away, and how he never wanted to feel like that again. So, he learned. He went to the library after the school day finished and spent hours reading, taking notes, annoying librarians with questions about anything and everything that intrigued him. A few years ago, he began to help at the town apothecary, and it was there that he met Professor Deaton – an intellectual at the University of Florence. He’d stopped for the night at the local inn on his way back from a trip to Rome and needed supplies. He and Stiles talked for what seemed like hours. Deaton couldn’t help but express how in awe he was of how much Stiles knew. This lead to Deaton finally presenting Stiles with an offer.  
‘If you continue to harness your knowledge over the next few years, get in touch. There will be opportunities at the University. I promise you that.’  
That is exactly what Stiles did. About a month before this morning, he wrote to Deaton informing him of his intentions to enrol at the University. After undergoing the application process, all he could do was go back to life as normal on the farm; him and his father.  
And there was Jordan, of course. Stiles and his father had brought him to work on the farm just after Stiles’s mother had passed. Jordan had wondered into town as a drifter looking for work as a young man when Stiles was still a child, and he quickly proved his worth. Originally, he only agreed to stay for a few months but as time passed, they bonded. He was adamant about only going by his last name – Parrish. It helped to not let things get too personal. Needless to say, that didn’t last for long. Stiles eventually became like a younger brother to him. He’d tag along with him when he worked in the fields, bombarding him with information about Stiles’s favourite herbs and plants and their various healing properties. It drove Jordan mad at first but soon, Jordan found himself asking his own questions, fascinated by how someone so young could know so much. He couldn’t bring himself to leave and they couldn’t bear to watch him leave. So, he stayed.  
The courier came down the path holding the letter in his hand. At first, he thought nothing of it. Letters were nothing out of the ordinary, usually bringing orders or communications from the nearest towns and other farms, but he quickly realised this wasn’t a normal letter. First off, this was not a courier he was familiar with. Stiles knew the normal ones; boys he’d gone to school with, boys he drank with, and even one or two he’d had some more secretive encounters with. This young man probably travelled hours, maybe even days to deliver this letter in person. As the boy got closer, Stiles could make out the mop of blond curls that sat atop the boy’s head, his impressive height, and even those gorgeous cheekbones.  
No. Now’s not the time. Bigger things to focus on.  
It had been a while since Stiles had been with anyone, so getting distracted like this was fairly normal. However, he quickly snapped out of it. On any other day, he probably would’ve tried his luck; God knows he’s succeeded before. (And God knows he’s also failed enough times.) But no, today he was focused on one thing. That damn letter.  
That was the second thing that he noticed; the letter itself. Even from a distance, Stiles could see the ruby-red, wax seal glimmer in the sun. This all but confirmed his suspicions. The letter would be for him; his future was in that letter.  
Across the path, Parrish was in the barn tending to the horses.  
When he noticed the courier, he set down his equipment and walked over to Stiles knowingly.  
“Is that-“  
“It’s got to be.” Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat. Jordan could see how nervous Stiles had quickly become, no matter how much he wanted to hide it.  
“I’ll go tell your father; he’ll want to be here when you open it.”  
Stiles nodded, unable to take his eyes off the courier, and Parrish walked away before disappearing into the stone-built house behind them. As the courier got closer, Stiles walked over to meet him. As he started to walk, the boy – well, young man; he was definitely Stiles’s age – locked eyes with Stiles and tilted his head up ever so slightly, smirking.  
“You must be Stiles.” He stuck his free hand out to shake Stiles’s. Despite the slight sheen of sweat he had developed from the nerves and the midmorning sun, he accepted.  
“And you are?”  
“Isaac Lahey. Student of the arts under Professor Christopher Argent at the University of Florence.” He handed the letter over to Stiles.  
“And you’re here because?” He knew why Isaac was here, he wasn’t that clueless. There was just a part of him that expected Deaton to be the one to deliver it. A stupid thought in hindsight.  
“Well, primarily I’m a student at the University of Florence, studying military technique under Professor Christopher Argent.” He handed the letter over to Stiles. “But sometimes I deliver letters to pretty boys.” He said with a wink.  
What.  
Before Stiles could fully register what Isaac had just said, Isaac turned and walked away with a quick wave over his shoulder. As brief as their meeting had been, he had a feeling this wasn’t the last time he’d be seeing Isaac.  
“Stiles,” His father’s voice pulled him back to reality. “Come inside.”  
\----------  
Sitting at the dining table, he held the letter in his hand; feeling the coarse paper of the envelope, running his fingers over the image of a robed cleric pressed into the red wax seal binding it together. Part of him didn’t want to open it, the fear of rejection suddenly setting in. He held it up to the window where the sun was beaming in, hoping to get a glance at what was inside. Jordan couldn’t help but chuckle from across the table.  
“If you don’t open it then I will,” Jordan laughed, reaching across the table to snatch the letter out of Stiles’s hand.  
“Not so fast.” Noah’s voice came from behind Jordan, in turn snatching the letter from his hand and passing it back to Stiles as he sat down in the wooden chair next to Jordan. Stiles picked up the letter once more, again tracing his fingers over the wax seal. The laughter subsided as the air became heavy, the three men sharing the same sense of anxiousness.  
This is ridiculous. He thought to himself. Almost instinctually, he ripped the letter open, letting the seal fall onto the wooden table in front of him. He felt his heart racing as he pulled the letter out of its envelope. Beautifully written words covered the page, cursive letters flowing seamlessly into one another. To most other people, this would most likely be just another letter, but to Stiles, it was beautiful. He couldn’t help but run his fingers over the dried ink, taking in every little curve, every little point of each letter. That was until he noticed one phrase in particular.  
‘Our deepest regrets to inform you,’  
Huh. This was strange. He thought he’d be more disappointed. Instead, he just felt numb. He didn’t need to read the rest of the letter to know where it was going.  
Stiles must have been wearing an expression he didn’t realise he was because when he looked up from the letter he could tell the other two had already guessed the news. Hell, they looked like they were more upset than he was. Putting the letter down, Stiles rose from his seat.  
“I just need some air, I’ll be back in a minute.” His voice came out as more of a whisper, tears suddenly fighting their way out.  
He walked across the room to the front door, but as he was about to open it, a chuckle sounded from the table. A chuckle that quickly lead to two bellowing laughs.  
“Stiles,” Jordan’s voice rang out behind him, “Read the rest of the letter, you idiot.”  
Stiles quickly turned around, his heartbeat picking up once more. As he made his way back to the table Jordan held the letter out to him, allowing Stiles to take it from his hand. Once again, his eyes scanned the page.  
‘Our deepest regrets to inform you, the University is not able to take you, Mieczysław Stilinski, on as a student at this time.’ The letter continued with the usual rejection stuff; ‘our deepest sympathies’, ‘please explore other options’, ‘we encourage you to try again in the future’. At the end, the final paragraph was written in notably different handwriting. He wondered how the hell he hadn’t noticed it before. It began,  
‘Dear Stiles,’  
Suddenly, it clicked. He recognised that handwriting. It was Professor Deaton’s. When he had met Deaton for the first time, he had left Stiles with some scribbled notes to help Stiles with his future research; different exotic herbs and plants, famous authors, etc. The paragraph continued,  
‘My apologies for the rejection, I know how tough that must’ve been to read. However, having been informed of the decision at an earlier date I was able to make a few arrangements. I remember our first meeting with much fondness, and with no doubt that the knowledge you so eagerly shared on that day has only grown. It is a shame that you will not be enrolling here as a student in the coming weeks but that is not the end of your journey. I am in need of an apprentice. Someone that will assist me in my work at the University whilst also learning to hone their own knowledge and, hopefully, find their calling. I believe you would fill this role, not just adequately, but perfectly – should you accept. Isaac will return in the coming days to receive an answer. I hope you will accept.  
Professor Alan Deaton.”  
Stiles shifted his focus from the letter back to his dad and Jordan. “Well, gentlemen,” he began, a smile breaking out across his face, “looks like I’m going to Florence.”  
\----------  
That night, the three men celebrated. Bottles upon bottles of wine were bought and drank at the local tavern, some being shared with their neighbours and friends. Stiles was having fun, honestly, but he quickly became bored with half-drunk ‘congratulations’ and stories from when he was younger off his father’s friends. He decided to just be alone for a few minutes. Since he read the letter earlier on in the day, he hadn’t really had time to just soak it in. He finished his work for the day – against his father’s insistence to take today to relax – and once he’d finished, he took a shower and headed into town with his father and Jordan. It was a nice night; the stars filled the sky and the moon watched over him. A slight breeze made the warm air much more comfortable. As he thought about everything, he realised that for the first time in a while, he felt at peace. He could hear his father inside, leading a group of drunken patrons in song. At this point Stiles realised that he had left his drink inside, although he’d most likely finished it, so he decided to stay a bit longer.  
“Care for another drink?” A familiar voice cut through the background noise coming out of the tavern. As he turned around, Isaac was stood there with a fresh bottle of red wine and two glasses.  
“If it's free.”  
Isaac let out a small laugh as he began to walk towards Stiles. His clothes were different, more casual than what he’s delivered the letter in. It suited him. Stiles took one of the glasses out of Isaac’s hand, their fingers accidentally brushing as he did. On the inside, he was embarrassed but, on the outside, he played it off as if he hadn’t noticed it himself. The two boys leaned against the waist-high fence behind them as Stiles held the glass out for Isaac to begin pouring the drinks.  
“So,” Isaac began, “I can’t help but notice your dad and the farmhand inside-”  
“Jordan. His name’s Jordan. And he’s more than a ‘farmhand’.” He didn’t like Isaac’s tone, something about the boy’s tone that came across condescending. He didn’t mean to get defensive; it was just something that came naturally. Having grown up on a farm, other kids at school used to make jokes, look down at him, so he learned to defend himself. Verbally and physically for that matter. Isaac seemed to back up a little bit, realising that he’d said something wrong.  
“Sorry, I didn’t know what else to say I didn’t exactly know his name.” Oh, yeah. How would he have known it? Now Stiles felt a bit guilty about snapping, but Isaac continued. “I couldn’t help but notice your dad and Jordan inside. Something tells me this is a celebration.”  
Isaac was closer to Stiles at this point, having done so subtly while he was speaking, his arm extended across the fence behind Stiles’s back. “Something also tells me that I already know what you’re celebrating.” Isaac turned to face Stiles now, somehow getting closer despite the lack of distance between the two. Stiles remained with his back against the fence, looking ahead of him instead of turning to face Isaac.  
“You can tell Deaton I’m accepting his apprenticeship, so yes, that is what we’re celebrating.” Stiles grinned as he took another sip of his wine.  
“Well that is cause for celebration” Isaac’s voice became softer, almost lower in tone. Stiles felt fingers underneath his chin, turning his head to the right, facing Isaac. He had to tilt his head up to look at Isaac this closely, only now appreciating how tall he really was. “And I have a few ideas on how we can celebrate.” Stiles turned his body to face Isaac completely, and tilted his head up ever-so-slightly more, giving Isaac a subtle challenge. Do it. Isaac took the hint, softly putting his hand on Stiles’s lower back and swiftly closed the last remaining bit of space between the two, pulling Stiles in for a kiss. It was needy, full of nothing but lust on both sides. Stiles knew that this had been Isaac’s plan from the minute he strolled up that path this morning – he wouldn’t admit it, but he knew Isaac wouldn’t leave without this, and he’d been waiting all day for it. As the two pulled back to breathe, their attention turned to the tavern-goers, still deep in song - led by none other than his dad.  
“Well,” Isaac began as his hands wandered, “they’ll probably be here for another few hours. How about we celebrate somewhere a bit more private?” Isaac stole another quick kiss before Stiles could answer. He hadn’t done this for a while, and Isaac was ridiculously attractive. He knew this would be just a one-night arrangement, and it would probably be an issue in the future, but tonight he didn’t care. He wanted to celebrate, and he couldn’t think of a better way to do so.  
“My place. It’s closer.”  
“Lead the way, Stilinski.”  
Looking back at the tavern one more time, he noticed Jordan standing at the door who just laughed and gave him a knowing nod before going back inside – he knew that nod, knew that meant Jordan would occupy his Dad for a few more hours at least. Stiles took Isaac’s hand, leading him back to the farm for the night ahead of them.  
\----------  
It was mid-morning when Stiles woke up. He reached across the bed to find it empty – although he knew that this would be the case, a part of him couldn’t help but feel hurt. It was always like this after a night spent with someone, but he knew the feeling would leave quick enough. Upon going downstairs, Stiles was met by Jordan, who just gave him a knowing smirk and his dad who, quite frankly, looked like death from the copious amounts of alcohol the night before. For now, the celebrations were over. The upcoming week would be Stiles’s last on the farm for a while, so he was determined to get as much work done as possible so things would be easier for his dad when he wasn’t there.  
The next week went by like any other. He did his work on the farm, more than he usually would, getting ready for his journey to Florence. His dad was, quite rightly, worried about Stiles. So, he decided that Jordan would take him on the three-day journey, along with their most reliable horse – Roscoe. Jordan was more than happy to do so, a week out of his schedule was nothing to make sure Stiles got to Florence safely. The journey back would be a bit lonely, but he could look after himself fine enough. He spent most of the week planning the best route; which roads to take, which ones to avoid, which inns to stop at for the nights. The route was relatively simple, more or less due north from the village.  
The week came and went uneventfully, as any other week would. Soon enough, the day came for Stiles to go. Getting ready wasn’t too difficult, he didn’t actually own much apart from clothes and some smaller, more sentimental items – letters from his mother, etc.  
“You sure you’ll be okay?” Stiles hated leaving his father for anything, but it normally wasn’t too bad, at the end of the day he knew his dad had Jordan. Now that they were both leaving for a bit, he realised this would be the first time his father had no one around him on the farm since even before Claudia passed. If his father felt anything like Stiles was, he certainly wasn’t showing it. All Stiles could see on his face was pure excitement for his son.  
“Stiles, how many times do I have to tell you – I’ll be fine. Stop worrying about me for one minute and focus on yourself. This is your moment; savour it,” Noah pulled his son in for a hug one last time. “Besides, it’ll be nice to get some peace and quiet for once.” He said with a chuckle. “Now go. The journey’s long enough as it is – you don’t need it being any longer.”  
Stiles hopped onto the small wooden wagon attached to Roscoe. It was fairly small compared to some other wagons, but it was all they needed; seats for Stiles and Jordan, and some space for the luggage and supplies for the journey.  
“You ready?” Jordan turned to look at Stiles expectantly. As he took one last look at his dad and the farm, he answered.  
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”  
Jordan shook the reins, and Roscoe started to move, although Stiles could’ve sworn he hesitated for just a second. As the horse and carriage carrying the two men made its way down the dirt road and off the farm, Stiles finally realised; this was real. All these years he had spent since his mother’s death learning were finally being realised.


	2. Chapter 2

Deaton sat in the sun-drenched courtyard situated just behind the university, on the banks of the Arno river that flowed gently through the city. He could always count on this courtyard for privacy whenever he needed time to reflect or even if he simply wanted some peace. Occasionally, there would be a student, maybe two or three, just sat reading or sometimes writing what he assumed would either be an essay or a love letter. When he thought about it, this was the perfect place to do so. Closed in on three sides by vine-covered stone arches, leading to winding corridors and countless classrooms. The other side facing the river, with a beautifully ornate cast iron fence acting both as a barrier and as part of the scenery. Deaton was sat on one of the numerous wooden benches dotted around the courtyard, each one gifted to the institution by numerous artists in the city. Neat gravel pathways edged with rows of roses and lilies and other pops of colour led visitors around the yard, bringing them closer to the beauty of the grand trees and the humble flowering bushes that grew there. Yes. This was the perfect place to write a love letter if ever there was one. But he never did. Instead he just liked to admire the beauty that was in front of him. Things like that could easily be forgotten nowadays, taking time to stop and just appreciate what was around him.   
The confirmation he had been awaiting from Isaac had arrived that morning. The young farm boy he had encountered in that small village apothecary was finally ready. He knew this with every inch of his being. If his timings were correct, Stiles should already be on his way. He had been waiting for since the first time they had met. Not that day in the apothecary. They first met years before, but he doubts Stiles even remembers. That wasn’t important right now, so he pushed it to the back of his mind. Besides, Stiles didn’t need to know – for now anyway. In due time, that conversation is one Deaton would be ready to navigate should the need arise. His wandering thoughts were brought to a stop as he heard the repetitive crunch of someone walking the gravel path behind him.   
“So,” His colleague, Professor Argent, joined him on the bench, “I trust you’ve heard back from Isaac by now?” Chris was involved with bringing Stiles to the University just as much as Deaton was. There was a time, long ago now, when he would’ve done anything in his power to work against Deaton’s efforts, but now the two had become close allies.   
“It is done. Stiles should now be on his way if I’m correct,” Deaton took his eyes off the scenery in front of him, to face Chris, “After all these years.”   
Argent was known for being able to mask his emotions behind his infamous stoicism, but in this moment his pensiveness showed. He was a well-respected man, both at the University and throughout the city. The Argents had been a powerful family for countless generations. They were certainly no Medici dynasty, but the name carried almost the same weight. Chris was the heir to be the patriarch of the Argent family, he had his pick of any career he wanted; politics, banking, military – any position of power he could imagine would simply be handed to him should he so choose. He made the decision to start out in the military, working closely with none other than Machiavelli. Just as quickly as he became one of the city’s most promising generals, he left the military behind. Instead, he decided to teach at the University. His class, ‘The Art of Warfare’ became one of the most sought after in Europe. But here, in this courtyard, him and Deaton were equals. God knows he certainly didn’t have any more power than Deaton in this situation they had found themselves in.   
“Do you really think he’s ready?” Chris turned his head to return Deaton’s gaze, “You don’t know this boy as well as you might think you do, Alan. You don’t know how he’s going to react – because you will have to tell him things that he won’t like. You know that.” Deaton led his gaze back to the pristine view directly in front of him, seemingly reminiscent about something. After being briefly lost in thought, he broke the silence – Chris’s gaze still firmly fixed on him.  
“If this boy is anything like Claudia, then he’s more than ready.” He couldn’t help a small smile on his face as he spoke these words. That came with the realisation that everything was falling into place – after all these years. Finally.


	3. Chapter 3

The scorching Mediterranean sun beat down onto the Italian countryside with an almost insufferable intensity. Jordan and Stiles had been travelling for two days now, making the journey into the Papal territories from the Kingdom of Naples where their farm was situated. They still had just over a day, maybe two, left of their journey before reaching Florence. It wouldn’t have taken this long normally, but with the heat more intense than normal, making sure Roscoe didn’t become dehydrated or exhausted became a priority. This meant they had to stop more frequently, resting at the side of the road or in a nearby field under whichever tree would give them the most shade. The journey so far was pleasant, although mainly uneventful. Not that that was a bad thing by any means; they’d much rather that than run into trouble. The intense heat had only really set in over the past day, before that they were lucky enough to have a cool breeze flow through the air.   
They could tell that they’d need to rest again soon, Roscoe seemed to be working harder to move along. Stiles spotted a substantial grouping of Carob trees in a meadow. It didn’t look like the land belonged to someone, so it wouldn’t be trespassing. They were safe.  
Stiles nudged Jordan’s arm to get his attention and pointed in the direction of the trees. Jordan simply nodded, jumping off the cart and walking in front of Roscoe to manually guide him over to the field. Once there, they set down beneath the branches, savouring the relief they got from the harsh sun. Jordan began to rummage through what supplies they had left to get water out for Roscoe, who he could tell needed it. Stiles just sat against the trunk of the tree and watched the environment around him. Jordan finished tending to Roscoe and sat against the trunk, next to Stiles but on an angle.   
The foliage began to rustle slightly, as an ever-so-slight breeze began to blow across the meadow. His life was changing, and he had worries, but right here he felt at peace. He always felt more at home in nature, like he was more in tune with it than those around him. Then again, everyone probably felt like that. Stiles knew the next weeks, even months, would be hectic. He knew he probably wouldn’t have a moment like this for a long time. All he wanted to do was savour it while it lasted, but he just couldn’t help himself.  
“He’s selling the farm, isn’t he?” Stiles broke the silence. A few seconds passed before Jordan answered. He let out a sigh before he spoke.  
“Stiles, it’s not your fault. It’s an attractive piece of land, there have been offers for years. You know that.”  
Except Stiles couldn’t help but feel like it was. He knew it was because he was taking up permanent residence in Florence, a city three days away from his father. Unless his father could find someone to replace him, that would be it. In the week before he left, he’d seen his father in town meeting with some men he’d only seen once before; just after Claudia died. That was the only other time selling the farm had become a real possibility. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew it made sense. In the long run, it was easier for his father.   
“Take me back.” Stiles stood up and stood in front of Jordan. He was met with a stare of disbelief. Jordan opened his mouth, clearly about to object but Stiles continued, “He’s not selling the farm. If me leaving means that that’s inevitable then take me back. I’m serious Jordan. This is more important than some apprenticeship.”  
Jordan didn’t answer. In fact, he wasn’t looking at Stiles at all – instead, staring right through Stiles, or behind him maybe?  
His hand reached out and grabbed Stiles’s wrist, his eyes still fixated on whatever was behind him. At this point, Stiles knew something was seriously wrong, so without asking questions he followed the pull of Jordan’s grip – walking slowly and carefully to situate himself safely behind his impromptu bodyguard. He didn’t want to turn around, face whatever I was that had Jordan go so protective, but he just couldn’t help himself. Now safely behind Jordan, Stiles began to crane his neck carefully, his body following just behind the motion. He’d had a suspicion this is what it would be. Out of everything it could have been, this was the one that made him go cold, sent shivers through him, and made him just a shade paler than he already was.   
He almost didn’t see it at first, the dense foliage acting as a remarkable hiding spot. Hell, he’s surprised Jordan even spotted it when he did. In the bushes, just forty feet ahead of the two men were a pair of glowing yellow eyes. Stiles knew what they belonged to even before it stepped out from the bushes. A wolf. Wolves were nothing new, Stiles and his father had dealt with them before on the farm and whilst they were frightening to a child like Stiles, they were never much of an issue. This one, however, was nothing like the ones he’d dealt with before. Its fur was thick, grey and mottled with flecks of black and white. It was almost twice the size of a normal Italian wolf, resting just about at Stiles’s chest on all fours. As if it wasn’t intimidating enough already, across its left eye was a scar – no doubt from a nasty fight. Stiles’s heart was racing. At some point, he’d grabbed Jordan’s wrist with his free hand without realising but let go when he did. The wolf prowled ever-so-slightly closer but flinched and moved back when Jordan stepped forward. Why the hell was this wolf scared of Jordan?  
“Stiles, take Roscoe and go.” Jordan’s voice was hushed, and Stiles could swear there was a hint of a growl in there somewhere.   
“Jordan are you fucking crazy? That thing will kill you the first chance it gets.”   
“Stiles,” Jordan turned to face him ever so slightly. For a second, his eyes looked red. Stiles didn’t think anything of it, there were bigger problems right now, “Go. Now.”  
Something was off here, Stiles knew it. It became clear to him at this moment that there were things he didn’t know. It also became clear that the best thing for him right now would be to get the hell away from whatever was happening here.   
“I’m going to the inn, down the road. If you’re not there by sundown, I’ll know something is wrong.” Stiles began to walk towards Roscoe but hesitated. “And by the way, if you die, my dad will kill me, so, please. Try not to get yourself killed.” With that, Stiles left. As he began to ride away, he noticed the wolf was, for some reason, not interested in him at all. It didn’t look like it was going to attack any time soon, but he knew Jordan would still have to be careful.   
\----------  
‘La volpe e l'imbroglione’. It was a strange name for an inn. High walls of smooth brick, with arched doorways and clear glass edged with wood, stood in front of Stiles. On each windowsill, small lavender bushes sit in rectangular terracotta pots. To the side, through a larger brick archway linking the main building to a large brick wall, a neat courtyard with gravel paths lined with lavender and geranium bushes, surrounding an understated stone fountain in the centre. A black cat sleeps on the front step.   
Stiles was lost in thought, mesmerised by the sight in front of him when a woman of about middle age came out to greet him. The first thing that Stiles noticed about the woman was that she was not from around here. Her striking features led him to believe that she was from the far east. The woman was highly elegant, with jet black hair, high cheekbones and bright honey-coloured eyes. Her clothing made her movements look even smoother and controlled. She wore a full-length, high-waisted black skirt with pleats that reached her feet, and a deep red, wrap-around top with oversized sleeves tucked into the skirt neatly. To Stiles, everything about her was intensely beautiful.   
“Good evening.” She approached him and nodded, a bright smile across her face. “Are you looking to stay here tonight?” She was obviously a woman who was well-travelled, the language barrier was obviously not going to be an issue.   
“Um, hopefully, yeah. I was just wondering if you had anywhere my horse could stay overnight.”  
The woman turned her attention to Roscoe for a second, admiring him endearingly for a moment.  
“Of course, our stables are around the back. Come, I will show you.”  
Stiles followed the woman, just to her side and almost behind her but not quite.  
“I am Noshiko. I and my husband run the inn. It was an abandoned farmhouse of sorts – more like a villa - when we found it on our travels, so we settled; turned it into a waypoint for other travellers.”  
“It’s a beautiful building. Certainly much bigger than the farmhouses I know.”   
Soon to be ‘knew’, Stiles couldn’t help but think. He hadn’t forgotten about his father’s intent to sell the farm, but he knew it would be an issue to deal with in the near future rather than now.  
The two walked further along the path that had come from the main road, past the inn. There was a part of Stiles that thought he should be somewhat wary of Noshiko, but his mind was still too focused on waiting for Jordan to arrive to care. Just as his thoughts became more solemn and threatened to take over, Noshiko spoke.  
“You have been travelling for some time. I can tell.” Stiles noticed a small smile across the woman’s face. It was warm, rather than mocking, and it helped to put Stiles at ease a bit more.  
“From my father’s farm in Pescara.” Noshiko’s eyebrows raised slightly at this statement, “I’m travelling to Florence; to the University. I’m to start an apprenticeship in several days.” Stiles felt an involuntary smile creep across his lips as he spoke those words, a sense of personal pride setting in.   
“How impressive – and I mean that sincerely. It is a prestigious institution; many esteemed professors are proud to call it their home.” She looked almost reminiscent, Stiles thought, but he also thought it best not to snoop.  
“Part of me still can’t believe I got it. The man who will be my mentor is meant to be the best in his field.”  
“And what field would this be, if you don’t mind the question?”  
“Medicine.”  
Noshiko stopped in her tracks. She folded her arms across her chest and turned to face Stiles directly. For a second, Stiles was worried he’d done something to offend her before a fond smile broke out on her face.   
“Alan Deaton.”  
Noshiko spoke his name with the same reminiscent tone she had possessed earlier. Before Stiles could get a word in, momentarily stunned by her almost-revelation, Noshiko began to walk once more, and continued;  
“That’s a name I haven’t come across in quite some time.”  
“So you know him?” It was a stupid question really, but Stiles didn’t really know what else to say. Noshiko just chuckled.  
“Oh, I’ve known him since before I knew myself really. When I was lost, he took me in; gave me a path. He even introduced me to my husband, Ken.”   
They arrived at a wooden building, with a pointed stone roof and cobbled floor. There were about five paddocks on either side of the pathway, which ran through the middle of the building. Noshiko led Stiles to one of the two remaining available paddocks near the other end of the stable. An olive-skinned young man about Stiles’s age nodded at Noshiko, who nodded back, before returning his attention to the grey mottled horse in the paddock in front of him. Stiles led Roscoe into the paddock and tied his reins to a post to the side. Noshiko spoke once more.  
“He is a good man. His heart is kind.” She paused, “You are lucky. Do not forget that, Stiles.”  
Stiles was lucky that he was facing away from her; he couldn’t help the frozen look of fear and confusion on his face upon hearing her speak his name – something he hadn’t mentioned to the woman so far.   
“Come. We can get you booked in, get you settled into a room.” Noshiko’s gentle smile, which earlier had comforted Stiles, now unsettled him.  
\----------  
In the courtyard, Stiles sat cross-legged on the low-walled edge of the fountain; the stone beneath him made for a surprisingly comfortable seat. Whilst the room he had been given was nice enough, the courtyard was much nicer. It sounded strange, but he felt more welcome amongst the flowers and trees than he did when he was surrounded by brick walls and wooden floors. A light breeze blew through the courtyard, bringing with it a much-needed coolness to the warm evening. The sounds around him were soothing. In the trees, birds chirped and sang, accompanied by the soft trickle of water from the fountain behind him and the rustling of leaves from that soft breeze. Curled up next to him was the black cat he had seen near the front of the building earlier; its head rested on his knee and was purring contentedly.  
Above him, the sun was starting to set. The once-blue sky had begun to change, melting into warm shades of orange and yellow. Sat on the horizon, the light blue turned to more of a lilac, and the colours of the sky almost exactly matched the shades he saw on the flowers around him. It almost felt magical. Sunsets like this one had always been some of his favourites. They always reminded him of when he was young and he and his mother would sit outside behind the house, watching the sky. She would hold him in her arms and tell him stories. Stories of magical creatures most people couldn’t see. They always fascinated him. ‘Can I see them?’ his curiosity was one of his mother’s favourite things about him, at least according to his father. He always remembered her reply. ‘You will one day, I promise.’ On nights like this, he often found himself thinking about those stories; wondered if there was any truth to them after all. Just as his mind began to wonder yet again, his thoughts were interrupted by the crunch of someone stepping onto the gravel path from the dirt road on the other side of the archway. His head turned to see Jordan, obviously exhausted but seemingly unharmed, walking towards him.   
In all honesty, Stiles was tired. There were questions that he wanted to ask Jordan; questions that spanned the years both before and after they met. He knew, however, that he would find out when the time was right. Now was not that time. Jordan sat next to Stiles on the low, stone wall. The two sat in silence for what seemed like an hour at least. It was a comfortable silence, but the sounds of the environment around them provided a much-needed ease to the little tension there was.   
“Thank you.” Stiles’s voice was so soft it came out as more of a whisper. At first, he wasn’t sure if Jordan had even heard him.   
“For what?”   
Stiles kept his glance on the bushes across from him, fluttering softly in the light breeze. “For everything. Not just today, but everything.” He could tell Jordan was looking at him, could see his turned face from out of the corner of his eye. Stiles returned the glance before he continued.  
“For everything. Not just today; everything.” He managed a wry smile. Jordan put his arm around Stiles and pulled him close. They sat like this until the sun went down. It was what Stiles needed, he wouldn’t see Jordan for god knows how long, so cherishing the time they had left was what he wanted to do. Once the sun went down and the breeze got cooler, the two went inside and prepared for the day ahead of them tomorrow. For Jordan, it was a lot of travelling. First to Florence, and then back to the farm in Pescara. For Stiles, it would be the start of his new life.


End file.
